Tea for Two
by Ladybrae
Summary: A new tenant has moved into 221 Baker Street. At first Sherlock is irate, but before long, he is having tea with her every morning. Is a recent murder behind his change of heart? Will he have to finally admit that he has one? Nothing is as it seems. Sherlock/OC
1. Chapter 1

_**Tea for Two is a work of fiction based in the universe of the BBC series Sherlock, starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. I do not own Sherlock. Technically, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the character, but he's otherwise engaged.**_

_**As a fan of the original Sherlock Holmes mysteries, I couldn't help but integrate certain traditional Victorian character tropes. Let me know if you catch them.**_

* * *

**Today...**

John and Mary walked briskly up the pavement leading to 221b Baker Street, a shameless smirk on her face, and a worried frown on his. As he reached for the front door handle, she stopped his hand, pulling his gaze to her own.

"So - Mrs. Hudson really thinks they might be - well, courting?" Mary whispered conspiratorially, the corner of her mouth pulling upwards.

"Courting? Mary, honestly - " John grimaced.

"Her words, not mine, John. But what would you call it anyway, as apparently they don't actually 'go out' or, you know -"

"No, I don't know, and whatever she claims to have "deduced', I think she must be wrong. I know Sherlock, and he doesn't do - this - sort of thing. Seriously, Mary! He's got an angle, some other reason for these - meetings, and I'm going to find out what it is, before we have another Janine on our hands."

"Is it really that unbelievable that Sherlock might have simply made a new friend?"

"Yes."

"You two found each other."

"We're different - and he didn't seek that out, it just sort of happened. Besides -"

"Oh, is that what it is? Are you feeling a little jealous that there could be someone else in his life? What, you can move out and get married, but if he finds someone to have morning tea with he must be up to something nasty-"

"What? No, stop - listen, it's not just tea now and then. Mrs. Hudson says that for the past two weeks Sherlock has gone downstairs to the new tenant's flat every morning at 10 o'clock. But Sherlock doesn't...enjoy casual conversation with people. There's a method to this. He's working on this poor woman for some reason, and I'm going to find out why, and stop him."

"Well, the simplest explanation is that he fancies her, and her him."

"This is Sherlock we're talking about, Mary. He doesn't fancy people, at best, he tolerates them. Besides, Mrs. Hudson says she can often hear them -"

"Oh!" Mary giggled, "She listens in, does she?"

John glared silently. After a few moments Mary collected herself and John continued. "She can often hear them arguing."

The mischievous grin dropped from Mary's face. "Arguing? Then why would she think they are-"

"She doesn't know, Mary, she just suspects. That's why she called us in to 'investigate'."

"And how do you think he'll react to us interrupting this new morning ritual?"

"I'm sure he'll be extremely rude, but there's nothing for it. Anyway, the babysitter's only available till one, so we'd better get cracking."

She smiled, nodding her head in assent, then leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips.

"Alright. But wouldn't it be nice if Sherlock could have - something like this?" She lifted up one hand and lightly placed it on John's cheek. "He's such a good man, even if he is a terrible bastard. He deserves to be actively happy, for once, to not be merely observing humanity from the outside."

John smiled and placed his hands on his wife's waist. "It would be nice. And it's within his power, if he ever wants it. But I really don't think that's what we're dealing with right now."

They looked into each other's eyes for a moment, then Mary nodded.

"Right. Let's see what all the fuss is about then, shall we?"

She stepped out of his way, and he opened the door to the building. He sent a quick look down the stairs towards the basement flat before walking across to Sherlock's door and knocking a few times, waiting patiently. There was no answer. He knocked again, this time calling out. "Sherlock? Are you there?"

"You know he's downstairs, so why are you checking at his door? she asked.

"Well, Mrs. Hudson said they have tea every morning, but I thought she might be exaggerating." he shrugged. "Besides, it's only 10:15, and Sherlock's not necessarily known for punctuality."

"Unless it's important to him."

"Right. Well -" John looked hesitantly down the stairs.

"Let's go!" Mary said impatiently.

"Wait. First, before we barge in, let's see if I can procure an invitation." He pulled out his phone.

"But he's been ignoring your calls for the past two weeks."

"Yes, but I haven't tried open threats yet, just veiled ones. One tick -" he began to type onto the small keypad.

*I'm at your flat. Where are you?*

He sent the message off, then looked up at Mary, who was fixing him with one skeptically lifted eyebrow. He opened his mouth to defend himself, when his phone dinged.

"See?" he smiled. " S'nothing wrong with asking!" he looked at the message, and his smile quickly fell. "Ah, well, it was worth a try." He showed Mary the reply.

*Busy. Go away.*

"Wonderful. How can we make an appearance now without seeming extremely presumptuous? Before, we were just dropping by, but now that he's specifically asked you to go away-"

"My phone could have run out of batteries before I saw the reply!" John interjected, his irritation growing. Mary sighed.

"We came all the way here, and we're certainly not leaving now. Let's just blame Mrs. Hudson. She did tell us where to find him, after all."

"That could work!" John said, feeling hopeful, then added a nervous, "Maybe." He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "Probably not." He sighed, clearly giving up. "Come on." He mentally steeled himself, and they made their way down to the basement.

On the left wall of the hallway leading to the flat, next to an old battered post-box, hung an intricately carved and varnished wooden name plate which read, 'Dr. A. Fairbanks'. John took a deep breath, then rapped loudly on the door and they both instinctively leaned in to listen. They heard no audible conversation, only the sound of a chair scraping against the floor inside the flat, and then heavy steps moving towards the door. A familiar, deeply resonant voice suddenly rang out from the other side, and they both jumped back to a more polite distance.

"Go away, John." Sherlock said.

They smiled at each other and Mary squeezed his hand, encouraging him.

"Hello, Sherlock!" John practically yelled through the door. "It's me and Mary! We were just passing through, and Mrs. Hudson said you might be down here -"

Mary was leaning against the wall of the hallway, trying to contain her laughter when the door opened about six inches. Sherlock's impassive face glared out at them.

"I told you, I'm busy, now leave!" he hissed, then attempted to close the door, but John's foot was already in the jam.

"Well that's what I wanted to talk with you about!" John said again, too loudly. "The baby's settled now, with a regular child-minder, and Mary and I are back at the office, so I figure - let's have a little fun! Any interesting cases to crack? Maybe one right now?" he tried to lean in and peer through the doorway past Sherlock's head, but the man didn't budge.

Sherlock sighed heavily. "I'll call you later, John. Now isn't -"

Sherlock froze mid sentence and cocked his head to the side, clearly listening to a soft voice inside the flat which John and Mary couldn't quite make out. Mary gave John a knowing wink. A few moments later, Sherlock turned back towards them, scowling openly, before opening the door wide.

"Please, come in." He said in mock-politeness.

They stepped into the flat and looked around curiously. It was decorated in a very sparse, modern fashion, completely different from the cluttered, pseudo Victorian decor of Sherlock's apartment. The kitchen was framed in chrome and dark cedar, the couch next to the fireplace streamlined black leather, and the small table set into the bay window a circular design of wood and metal with no ornamentation, only a simple white porcelain tea setting. Solid accenting colors were placed artfully around the house, keeping it from appearing too institutional - a light blue throw rug in the entryway, a violet pillow upon the couch. The most notable aspect of the room was, of course, the beautiful woman sitting at the table, who was currently gesturing for them to enter.

"Please, come in." she said without standing. "I'm very happy to meet you both. If you have time, would you join us for tea?"

They glanced at each other, then stepped inside. Mary pretended to look around appreciately at the interior, while John smiled awkwardly from Sherlock, to the woman, then back again. She was petite, and very thin, with short ash blonde hair only a few inches longer than his own, her fringe swept to the side. Her eyes were light brown, her skin very pale, and her heart-shaped face almost painfully delicate. A stray thought tickled at the back of his mind - there was something disturbing about the fragile beauty of her appearance. He frowned and looked back to Sherlock, whose arms were crossed - he stood between them and her, unmoving.

John cleared his throat. Sherlock glared.

"Sherlock? the woman said softly, "Would you care to introduce me to your friends?"

Sherlock glanced quickly over to her and his hands fell to his sides. He seemed to deflate. "Of course. John, Mary, may I introduce Dr. Annabelle Fairbanks."

He stepped back and welcomed them forward with an irritated flip of his hand. They ignored his rudeness and walked quickly to the table, smiling openly at Annabelle.

"Hello, and thank you for making Sherlock let us in." John said, shaking their hostess's hand.

"It's lovely to meet you." Mary said. "You have a beautiful home."

Sherlock groaned audibly and walked to the window, staring out despondently.

"Please sit down and have some tea, will you?" Annabelle said quietly, gesturing to the two unused spaces at the table.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two weeks earlier…**

Sherlock thumped his head backwards against the passenger seat head-rest in an irritated huff. "What a tedious waste of time." He muttered under his breath, then snapped at the cabbie, "Nevermind, I'll walk the rest of the way!"

A line of cars was backed up from Baker Street all the way to Park Road, preventing the driver from dropping him off any closer to home. Sherlock kicked the passenger door open in the middle of the intersection and climbed out, slamming the door behind him. He tossed what he judged to be fair payment for a half-done job through the window at the cabbie, and began briskly walking the remaining three blocks to his house, ignoring the elaborate curses thrown his way by the ill-used driver. He shrugged his shoulders in ambivalence. He couldn't be bothered with niceties today; after a month long dry spell, he finally had an interesting case to solve, and he needed to get home so he could think.

Lestrade had called him in that morning to investigate the murder of a Mr. Patel, the personal assistant to Marova Garrett, Director of Clinical Trials at the Cancer Research Institute in central London. The inspector's brief report on the victim showed him to be generally unremarkable, with no apparent vices, infidelities, enemies, or other illicit connections. As of yet, Scotland Yard had no obvious suspects, nor a motive to explain why Mr. Patel had been strangled last night in the lab where he worked uneventfully for five years.

That's where Sherlock came in, and as he walked to his flat, he pondered the evidence he had found at the lab that morning.

The scene of the crime: The lab had clearly been put back to rights after the assault; the killer had wiped down and sterilized the entire room, leaving almost no sign of struggle or even fingerprints. Patel's body was found by an unfortunate medical student at 7:30 that morning, laid out on a gurney in the center of the lab and covered in a white sheet, already set for his trip downstairs to the morgue. Deduction - The killer was careful, observant, and methodical, perhaps even obsessively so.

Weapon: A quick perusal of the medical refuse bins outside the lab revealed a line of unused catheter tubing. Unused in the traditional fashion, that is; as it had been stretched perfectly so as to fit around a human neck, making it the killer's likely murder weapon. The disposal of the tubing was simultaneously careful and careless. No fingerprints, bodily fluids, hair, skin, or any other clues to the culprit's identity were to be found on the garrote. But the killer failed to notice that the bins had already been emptied that night, leaving the improvised garrote to be easily spotted the next morning. Deduction - The killer had access to items from medical storage, and knew where to properly discard them afterwards. He or she likely has a medical background, and is either currently or formerly employed by the Institute.

Suspect profile - Strangulation is a crime of rage and intimacy. The killer struck from behind, the angle and pattern of bruising showing them to be shorter in height than Mr. Patel, specifically between 5'4' and 5'6'. Additional injuries to the body indicate a prolonged struggle, suggesting the attacker was neither experienced in using physical force, nor very strong. Deduction - The killer was either a woman of average height or a slight man, and had a personal reason to want him dead.

Motive-

Sherlock's train of thought was suddenly interrupted by a perplexing sight. He had reached his building whilst considering the case, and was now faced with the source of the gridlock. A large van was parked directly in front of 221, blocking the entire street, and a moving crew was milling about his front door. Some were walking in and out, carrying boxes and furniture, but the bulk of the crew were trying, with great difficulty, to shift a piano into the basement apartment through the large front window.

"Good god, stop this at once!" he yelled, catching the eyes of a few of the workers, who simply shrugged, unwilling to break focus from their delicate task.

"That's my house you're invading, and I don't recall ordering a piano!" He exclaimed, his consternation growing. "Excuse me, you there-" But no one paid him any mind, the above ground crew continuing to slowly heft the instrument into the arms of the movers already inside the house. His mouth agape, his hands beginning to shake in fury at his sides, he stepped forward to accost the closest workman, only to see Mrs. Hudson stalking towards him, shaking her finger, her expression accusatory.

"Sherlock! I thought I heard you moaning! Leave the workers alone! I told you the new tenant was moving in soon- that's why I've been having all that remodeling work done downstairs. Now be a dear and get out of everyone's hair! Go play with your microscope, or some of those body parts you keep in the fridge!"

He threw his hands up in frustration."Stop your nattering, woman! That is a piano! A piano, soon to be located directly below my flat! I absolutely refuse to allow it!"

"You certainly can't prevent it." She said, pointing at the movers who had finally managed to safely leverage the instrument through the window.

His eyes widened in horror and he dashed past her, shoving two workmen carrying boxes out of the way as he pushed through the front door. Mrs. Hudson followed closely on his heels.

"Sherlock! Don't you dare! You leave Miss Fairbanks alone! She's perfectly in her rights to have a piano, and you've no idea her-"

She stopped at the inside door of the new tenant's apartment to find Sherlock standing in front of the piano, effectively blocking the moving crew from shifting any further into the sitting room.

"No, no further!" he yelled at the workmen, who were beginning to curse and yell in his direction.

"Move, ya arsehole!" The man at the front of the instrument demanded.

"This is being done without my consent!" Sherlock retorted. "I demand to talk to the owner of this instrument!" he yelled, peering back into the hallway next to the kitchen, but not moving from his position blocking the piano. "Well? Where is this famous Miss Fairbanks!?"

Mrs. Hudson sighed and cradled her head in her hands, before looking up to the irritated crew chief, who was still holding the front edge of the piano. "Alright lads," she said, "looks like it's break time. Just set the instrument down next to the window. We'll see you back in ten minutes to finish moving in the rest of her things. Alright?"

The disgruntled crew threw up their hands and stalked out of the flat, whingeing about working conditions. Mrs. Hudson glared at Sherlock, who was still standing in the center of the sitting room, his arms folded. But as he waited for his new neighbor to appear, his irate expression changed into one she recognized all too well- curiosity. He was listening in on a heated argument taking place in one of the adjoining rooms.

"You really are something else, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson reprimanded, shaking her finger at him again. "Storming into the poor woman's home, making demands, EAVESDROPPING!"

She walked up the the bedroom and knocked on the door, unwittingly hearing the end of the disagreement.

"-I could have helped you find a place, Anna! Why didn't you tell me? Why here? You shouldn't be on your own anyway-"

"-I need this, Harry. And I told you, George helped me set it up. I was looking at the ads, and it just stood out to me. Why are you so agitated? You can visit as much as you like-"

Mrs. Hudson shook herself and knocked on the door again before calling out.

"Miss Fairbanks? It's Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. You have a -" she frowned at Sherlock- "visitor."

Silence fell in the bedroom and then the door opened. A short, well dressed man with light brown hair stepped out into the sitting room, a resigned look on his face. His eyes flashed first to Mrs. Hudson, then to Sherlock and widened briefly, before he turned quickly away to look back into the bedroom. Sherlock raised one unimpressed eyebrow in response.

"Hello, I'm Harry," he said perfunctorily, before holding out his arm to prop the door open as Miss Fairbanks slowly stepped into sight. Her face showed her to be in her late 20s or early 30s, but her figure was tiny and childlike, barely 5 feet tall and willowy, and she wore a flowing light green sundress and a white cardigan. Her feet were wrapped in leather sandals, her toenails painted white. Her face looked pale and pained, and her almond shaped eyes closed briefly as she took a deep breath. She leaned on the door frame with one hand, her other resting on her forehead and frowned slightly before speaking. Her brother leaned in towards her, placing a hand on her shoulder, a look of anguish flitting across his face, but she waved him off.

"Mrs. Hudson? I was speaking to my brother," she said. "How can I help you? And where are the movers?" She looked into the sitting room, her eyes fixing on Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes." She murmured.

"That's right." He said abruptly. "The honor is all yours, I'm sure. But I'm here for one reason only. To demand that you remove this blasted instrument." He said, pointing at the piano. "I require silence for the delicate research, interviews, and investigations I undertake, and this-" he said gesturing wildly, "-will not do!"

"Do you see, Anna?" Harry begged, before she could respond. "This isn't a good place for you. Please, move in with me and Alice. We have plenty of space-"

"Sherlock Holmes." Anna said again, as if to herself. Her eyes were again closed, this time in concentration. "There was something, something important I needed to tell you, or was it ask you-?"

Harry's eyes bulged and his hands fisted at his sides, behaviors which didn't escape Sherlock, whose anger was once again dissolving into curiosity. But he pressed on with the confrontation. "Hello?" He waved sarcastically. "Miss Fairbanks? As it happens, I have a question for you! And it concerns the removal of this infernal instrument!" he slapped his hand down on the piano lid, causing an atonal reverberation to echo through the room.

Her eyes snapped open and she glared. "It's Dr. Fairbanks, actually. Dr. Annabelle Fairbanks. Now kindly take your hands off my piano."


	3. Chapter 3

"_Sherlock Holmes." Anna said again, as if to herself. Her eyes were closed anew, this time in concentration. "There was something, something important I needed to tell you, or was it ask you-?"_

_Harry's eyes bulged and his hands fisted at his sides, behaviors which didn't escape Sherlock, whose anger was once again dissolving into curiosity. But he pressed on with the confrontation. "Hello?" He waved sarcastically. "Miss Fairbanks? As it happens, I have a question for you! And it concerns the removal of this infernal instrument!" he slapped his hand down on the piano lid, causing an atonal reverberation to echo through the room._

_Her eyes snapped open and she glared. "It's Dr. Fairbanks, actually. Dr. Annabelle Fairbanks. Now kindly take your hands off my piano."_

* * *

**Two weeks earlier, continuing from Chapter 2…**

Sherlock looked appraisingly at the tiny woman before him, then slowly removed his hand from the piano lid to his pocket. She stared back at him expectantly, her lips pursed to a thin line. He opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again and ran a frustrated hand through his hair, seeming to reconsider his approach to the conversation. She quickly broke the awkward silence.

"This is my home for the next few months, Mr. Holmes, and Mrs. Hudson has given me permission to install my instrument. I am sorry that this grieves you, but it is unavoidable that you may at times be subject to my playing. If you find yourself disturbed by my musical attempts, I recommend earplugs or a brisk walk. In any case, I'm sure you can find the strength, somehow, to persevere through this difficult time. Will that be all?"

Sherlock raised one clenched fist into the air, then brought it impotently back to his side, his jaw working furiously.

"Yes. Fine." he said harshly, then turned on his heel, marching out of the flat. Mrs. Hudson looked at Annabelle, who was leaning on Harry's shoulder, a proud smile on the landlady's face. As Sherlock reached the front door, he suddenly whirled back towards them and called out.

"But I'm warning you, DOCTOR Fairbanks, if I hear one single stanza of Les Mis, you will regret moving to 221 Baker Street!" he shouted through the doorway.

"I already do!" she countered. "And I'll play what I like!"

Sherlock growled with derision and stormed up the stairs to his own flat, slamming his front door. They followed the sounds of his stomping up and down the sitting room ceiling, then the sharp crack of another door slamming, then more enraged stomping, and then finally, blessed silence.

"Well, that's Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson said apologetically. "He takes a little getting used to, but I promise, you'll grow to...well, hmm. I suspect before you know it, he'll just be pretending like you don't even exist. Won't that be nice?" she said with fervent optimism.

Harry turned to Annabelle, putting both his hands on her shoulders. She had a faraway, glazed look in her eyes. "Anna? Let's sit down." He led her over to the black leather couch , which was mostly covered in boxes and clothing. He made a small space for the two of them among the clutter, and sat down with her. She leaned her head on his shoulder and sighed.

"What do you say, Ana?" Harry pleaded. "Can't I convince you to move in with me and Alice? Especially considering that terrible man? Are you sure this is where you want to spend - uh, spend the next few months?"

"I'll just be heading back to my flat." Mrs. Hudson said, nodding politely at the siblings, and walking quickly to the door. As she let herself out, she couldn't help but smile at Ana's quiet response.

"Ah, but if I left now, I wouldn't have the great pleasure of learning how to play Les Mis for Mr. Holmes."

* * *

Sherlock lay in the dark on his bed, the shades drawn, the lights off. His hands were tucked behind his head, his eyes closed. But he wasn't asleep, and he most certainly was not thinking about his new neighbor and her impending 'musical attempts'. He was reflecting on Mr. (What was his first name?) Patel's murder. John Watson would already have a clever moniker for the case, were he writing this up for his blog. The Purple PA. Intrigue at the Institute. The Silent Secretary. Something tacky and alliterative.

The lab Mr. Patel worked in was undertaking several studies testing experimental vaccines for brain cancer. His position was purely clerical, but he worked closely with all the doctors supervising the research, especially Marova Garrett. Perhaps they were having an affair? Sherlock made a mental note to interview Dr. Garrett tomorrow.

Or perhaps he had stumbled onto something clandestine: extortion, embezzlement, or - knowing academics - dishonest research practices? The possibilities for personal and professional misbehavior were endless. Patel also had contact with patients; perhaps he had discovered something illicit between the sickbeds?

Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a quick text message to Lestrade requesting information on both employees of the lab and patients involved in the clinical trials over the past six months.

The report Lestrade had given him that morning noted the victim was the only child of a widower, a retired postal worker in Bromley. The police had already interviewed the senior Mr. Patel, but they could hardly be trusted to be thorough. He should speak to the man - but that would require going to Bromley. It would take at least an hour in good traffic to get there - maybe John could drive him?

Sherlock lifted his phone instinctively, but then then stopped himself. John's company was less than enlightening these days. Ever since the birth of his daughter a couple months previous he was either too tired to be of any use, or when he was well-rested, his conversation was inane, fixated on the infant's appearance, mannerisms, and bodily functions. And every time Sherlock called him at home, Mary insisted on speaking with him, usually inviting him to tea, and threatening to "show him" the baby. Why should he need to be shown a baby? Infancy was by far the least interesting stage of human development.

Sherlock glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of his room. It was 8:30 pm. Perhaps he should stay in tonight and do some internet reconnaissance on the Cancer Research Institute (CRI), or run some of those tensile tests on catheter tubing he'd been planning. As he pondered the best course of action, the sound of piano playing began to softly rise up through the floorboards of the apartment, whispering an alarmingly familiar tune. He sat up stiffly in bed, his mouth falling open in aggravation. His eyes flashed briefly before he snorted and swung his legs off the bed.

"That's decided then. Off to Bromley!"

He grabbed his coat and scarf on the way out and slammed the front door twice for good measure, leaving the melodic strains of _I Dreamed a Dream_ far behind.

* * *

Sherlock groaned and turned over in his bed as the early morning light streamed in past his curtains and bore through his eyelids. The previous night had been a long, frustrating waste of time. He hadn't been able to hail a taxi to Bromley for some reason, and so had been forced to take the bus, if only to escape from Dr. Fairbank's melodic assault.

When he finally arrived at Mr. Patel's home at around 10pm for the interview, he found the fellow to be remarkably intractable, considering he was there to help. He complained about the hour and Sherlock's unannounced visit, asserted that his son, George, was a true saint, rebuffed the notion that he could have had an affair with a co-worker, and insisted that nothing improper was going on in the lab, because if it had been, he would have told his father and reported it to the authorities.

He refused to let Sherlock into his son's room to look for clues, answered all his questions in a circular and unhelpful fashion, and took personal offence at his judgement that the man couldn't possibly know everything about his son's life. On and on he chattered: George was a good worker, a good man, top of his class, always helpful and kind, making friends with the patients, caring for them above and beyond his duties as personal assistant to Dr. Garrett. For those who found success with treatment, he would help them find employment and living accommodations, even stay in contact with them long after they moved on. For those patients not as fortunate, he was a compassionate and thoughtful friend, visiting them and their families until the end, attending funerals, and sending cards on melancholy anniversaries.

The tearful off-topic biography continued: George loved his job, everyone loved George, it must have been an accident, he was the best possible assistant, kept perfect records, was so clever, and the best son a man could hope for, God rest his soul -

At a certain point, perhaps it was the third time Mr. Patel asked, "Why? Mr. Holmes? Why George?" to which Sherlock had no sufficient reply, his felt his irritation segueing to pity. He realized he would need to continue this particular line of questioning later, perhaps with a different tack, and perhaps with someone like John or Molly as an emotional buffer. They could occupy the poor man and empathize with him while Sherlock looked through George's things for clues the police had no doubt missed.

It was midnight when he finally extricated himself from Mr. Patel, remembering at the last moment to offer his condolences. He navigated the public transit system with teeth-grinding impatience, erstwhile cursing John's domestic arrangement, and finally stumbled through his front door at two in the morning. He fell into his bed fully dressed, and lapsed into unconsciousness almost immediately-

-only to be rudely awoken less than six hours later.

He was thus roused from sleep that morning, and not by the bright sunlight streaming in through his window, but by the veritable cacophony rising up from the floor below. Someone was yelling, the television was on full volume, and there was an unforgivable amount of thumping and crashing reverberating throughout the building. He sprang out of bed with the energy only pure enmity can supply, and stormed out of his flat, down the stairs, once again throwing his new neighbor's front door open.

The television was set to the morning news, and Dr. Fairbanks was sitting on the couch facing away from him, surrounded by moving boxes which had all been overturned, scattering numerous notebooks and texts all over the floor. She was on the phone, sobbing and babbling inarticulately.

"Harry! I can't believe it! It's not possible! Not George, no, why? How could this happen? In the lab? In the very same lab! Did you know? Tell me you didn't know!"

Sherlock froze and looked up at the television. Dr. Morova Garrett was being interviewed by the press alongside Inspector Lestrade, doubtlessly about George Patel's murder. And this was clearly of some personal concern to Annabelle. She hadn't noticed his presence yet, so he took a slow step backwards out the door, and closed it in front of him, leaving it open a crack so he could listen in on her conversation with Harry.

"I told you something was going on, I just can't remember-no you listen to me Harry, I just, no, stop, I have this notebook, my journal from before I got worse - I can't find it. It explains everything. I just, I can't explain what I mean, but I know there's something important-" She sighed as Harry interjected.

"No Harry, please listen-" he spoke again and she cried, punching the couch and kicking over another box.

"I, I don't know! I can't remember, but there's something, I wrote it down in my journal-" she gulped and listened as her brother interrupted again.

"Yes, I know that's one of the possible side effects-"

"Yes, I trust you-"

"I just wish I could think, it's these meds, I hate them! I want to throw them all-"

She crumpled into the couch, crying more softly. "Ok. Ok." she said quietly. "No, you're right, I'm just upset about George. No, I won't. I promise. I'm sorry for upsetting you." She picked up a remote up from underneath some boxes and turned the television off, her other hand still holding the phone to her ear. "I'll see you later this afternoon. Love you, too. Bye."

She leaned back into the couch, the mobile falling from her fingers and clattering to the floor. Sherlock closed the door the rest of the way as silently as possible and considered the situation. Still standing out in the hallway, he pulled out his mobile and checked his email for any messages from Lestrade. Luck was with him, and there at the top of his inbox was the information he had requested last night: listings of both employees and patients in Dr. Garrett's lab. He scanned through dozens of names until he saw the one he now suspected would be there: Annabelle Fairbanks - diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme brain cancer, discharged the day before George Patel was found murdered. And on the separate list of employees, another name he predicted - Dr. Harry Fairbanks, current associate professor of clinical trials at the ICR.

Both intrigued by the new information and suspicious at the coincidences revealed therein, he pondered the implications of his new neighbor and her brother knowing the murder victim of his most recent case. All previous irritation at his rude awakening dissipated into focused excitement, and he pocketed his mobile, pasted a look of polite concern onto his face, and knocked on Annabelle's door.

"Dr. Fairbanks? Are you all right? It's Sherlock Holmes from upstairs - I heard a loud noise - can I come in?"


	4. Chapter 4

"_Hello, and thank you for making Sherlock let us in." John said, shaking their hostess's hand._

"_It's lovely to meet you," Mary said. "You have a beautiful home."_

_Sherlock groaned audibly and walked to the window, staring out despondently._

"_Please sit down and have some tea, will you?" Annabelle said quietly, gesturing to the two unused spaces at the table._

* * *

**Today, continuing from Chapter 1...**

John and Mary thanked Annabelle for her hospitality and began to bustle freely about the room, laying aside coats and scarves, and remarking pleasantly on the weather and her lovely apartment. Mary noticed a small upright piano in the far corner of the room and mentioned it.

"Do you play, Annabelle?" she asked.

Annabelle looked up from her tea with a puzzled expression. "Pardon?"

"Do you play the piano?" Mary repeated, pointing to the instrument.

Annabelle followed Mary's gaze to the corner of the room, then nodded. "Oh, yes. Yes I did - do play. I taught music at University."

The Watsons both nodded amiably and sat down at the table with their hostess. John poured himself a cup of tea and Mary helped herself to a scone and a glass of water. Sherlock kept stoic watch at the window, and Annabelle sipped her tea with one hand while working a crossword with the other.

"So, what brings you to Baker Street?" Mary asked after a few moments.

Sherlock sighed audibly, pulled out his phone, and began typing. Moments later John's phone chirped, but he ignored both it and the pouting detective.

Annabelle seemed to ponder Mary's question before answering. "I found myself with a few free months and wanted a place of my own closer to the center of town. I was living with my brother and his wife in the suburbs, but that situation was wearing thin. A friend of mine noticed Mrs. Hudson's advertisement and helped me to procure the tenancy here."

She stopped speaking suddenly and Mary noticed that there were tears in the younger woman's eyes. She looked at John in consternation and placed a worried hand on Annabelle's arm.

"I'm sorry, did I say something to upset you?" she asked. Annabelle looked up at her, and Mary saw, alongside the tears, a strange glazed look in her eyes.

"Well that's obvious, Mary," said Sherlock, who was suddenly moving to sit with the three of them at the table. He picked up the daily paper from his place setting and opened it up.

"Did you read this review of the new show down at West End?" He said conversationally to Annabelle, pointing at the Arts Focus section of the tabloid.

She looked over at him and her eyes seemed to clear. "Yes I did, and I can't say I'm surprised it's been panned. Cedric Billburn is a rubbish director and everyone knows it. For the life of me I can't see how he continues to get backing."

Sherlock nodded his head in agreement. "It is quite a mystery." He flipped absently to the sport section. "Perhaps I should investigate."

She clicked her tongue and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and massaging her temples with both hands. "You'll use any excuse to bring up your work, Sherlock. Even a failed theatre production can provide you with material."

He shrugged. "Every criminal is an actor at heart. Or is it the other way around?"

"Well, I'll agree that bad acting is criminal, but I think you'd be wasting your time investigating it," she replied, opening her eyes and looking back down to her puzzle.

"You're right, it would probably be an unworthy use of my time." He found the obituaries at the back of the paper and propped his chin on one fist, studying each entry intently.

"You're boasting again." She shot him a tetchy glare. "Someday you should shock me by refraining from mentioning how impressive you are in the space of a single conversation."

"I thought you enjoyed interesting and varied conversation," he remarked blandly, one eyebrow raised. "To my knowledge there's nothing more interesting and varied than my talents."

"I daresay your knowledge isn't as all-encompassing as you believe." Her chin inclined slightly towards him, her eyes challenging.

"And I believe you're teasing me. I thought you were supposed to be a good listener." He leaned in, mirroring her movements.

"You're right, and I am. As to whether you'll ever find someone who likes listening as much as you like talking, that remains to be seen," she quipped.

"Yes, it is doubtful. In fact, it's impossible that you could like listening to me as much as I like talking to you."

She blushed and Sherlock gave her a tentative smile. John and Mary stared at them in shock, then at each other. John put his hand up in front of his face and mouthed at his wife, 'Is he flirting?' to which she nodded in awed assent.

When they looked back to Sherlock and Annabelle, the two were both quietly busy again, Sherlock still reading through the obituaries, Annabelle back at her crossword. John cleared his throat.

"As I was saying before, Sherlock, do you have any interesting cases in the docket? We haven't been on the road together for a while, so what do you say to a good old fashioned man-hunt this weekend?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Annabelle.

"Please, John, I don't mean to be rude, but I'd rather we not talk about such dark subjects over tea." John raised his eyebrows in surprise, but she seemed so embarrassed that he moved immediately to mitigate the situation.

"Of course, Annabelle. Although, you must admit 'dark subjects' are hard to avoid around Sherlock."

"Maybe so, but it is better to sit in awkward silence than to allow the murder of innocents to become a point of light conversation. Don't you think?" Annabelle's voice was low and serious, her eyes once again filling with tears.

"Absolutely." Mary said, and John nodded, feeling chastened, but not annoyed. 'The murder of innocents' was clearly an issue close to her heart.

"Shall I make another pot of tea?" Sherlock asked, and Annabelle gave him a relieved smile, wiping her eyes with a napkin.

"Oui, merci. Mais les sachets de thé doit infuser pendant deux minutes, sinon il sera trop forte pour moi à boire,"* she said.

He nodded and stood up, grabbing the pot off the table. John and Mary looked at each other, surprised by Annabelle's sudden foray into French. But before John could mention it, Sherlock barked out, "Come along, John," and took hold of his friend's arm, practically dragging him out of his chair into the kitchen.

"Agh - Sherlock, hold on a tick-" John stuttered, setting his cup down with a clatter and stumbling along behind the detective.

Mary and Annabelle looked at each other and smiled, rolling their eyes as the men disappeared into the kitchen.

"So," Mary said. "You speak French?"

Annabelle frowned, then nodded slowly. "Sherlock vous at-il informé?"*

* * *

"Sherlock, you cock, what are you playing at?" John griped, pulling his arm out of Sherlock's grip once they reached the kitchen. "Shall we go to the loo together next?"

"Shut up John. I tried to tell you to join me in here via text, but you ignored me. Now listen, you've stumbled into a delicate situation and are already making a mess of things. Annabelle's ill and certain topics set her off. Her brother's going to be here at noon and god knows what she'll say to him with you and your wife making the conversational rounds."

"Wait, Sherlock, slow down. What's wrong with her? And what does her brother have to do with anything?" John crossed his arms in irritation.

"What's wrong with Annabelle? Has having a child made you dense? You're a doctor and you didn't notice anything unusual about her? Not the long scar running up from behind her right ear to the middle of her scalp? Not the cane hanging off the couch? How about the opiate collection?" He pointed to the nearby counter, where John saw at least a dozen different pill bottles. "The bouts of confusion and mood swings? The impromptu switch to French? Any of that ring a bell? Putting the pieces together now, are you? She has terminal brain cancer, John. Now be a good boy and leave so I can do my job."

"Brain cancer- oh damn." John ran his fingers through his hair, then froze and looked back up at Sherlock. "Wait-, your job?"

He took a step back and lifted a finger to his friend's chest.

"I knew it-" He snorted in frustration, "-you being friendly, having a regular tea-date, it's all just for show, for a case!" His voice was steadily rising in volume.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "For godsakes, keep it down. And yes, I'm working on a case! What else would I be doing?"

"Oh, I don't know! There's a clever, beautiful woman in there who doesn't seem to hate you. Any other man would be busy falling in love. But not you, Sherlock. Other people are just tools to you."

"You were very keen to get in on a case five minutes ago."

"Not this one. I won't let you manipulate a dying woman into providing - whatever it is you want from her. She clearly likes you, and you've made her believe that you're fond of her as well. It's not right, Sherlock!"

"Fine, fine, I'll spell it out for you. Annabelle is a victim of fraudulent medical practices. I stumbled upon her situation while investigating what is probably a related murder at the Institute where she was treated. Her brother, who is also a doctor, may be involved. And the reason we're whispering in here instead of talking freely out there is complicated, but related to her condition. Now, will you and Mary please leave?"

John's face fell. "Fraudulent medical practices? Do you mean to say someone is exploiting cancer patients?" Sherlock nodded. "And her own brother might be involved?" Sherlock nodded again.

John's jaw was set in fury and he let out a sigh. "Well, in that case - I want to help."

Sherlock looked strangely hesitant for a moment, and John saw his eyes scan across the flat to the sitting room where Annabelle was giggling at something Mary had said. A small smile played over his features, but vanished before John could be sure of what he had seen. The detective folded his arms and looked back to his friend.

"Fine. Go on up to my flat. I'll be out of here by 11:45 and tell you everything. Happy now?"

* * *

_**The inability to differentiate between known languages is common side effect of TBI. If I have any readers who are fluent in French, Spanish, or Italian, I would love some help translating several upcoming dialogues. Google translate is not fool-proof. ;)**_

_**Please follow, favorite and review. Your appreciation is my inspiration!**_

* * *

1 "Yes, Please. But let the tea bags steep for two minutes only, otherwise it will be too strong to drink."

2 "Did Sherlock tell you?"


	5. Chapter 5

_Sherlock pondered the implications of his new neighbor and her brother knowing the murder victim of his most recent case. All previous irritation at his rude awakening dissipated into focused excitement, and he pocketed his mobile, pasted a look of polite concern onto his face, and knocked on Annabelle's door._

"_Dr. Fairbanks? Are you all right? It's Sherlock Holmes from upstairs - I heard a loud noise - can I come in?"_

* * *

**Two weeks ago, continuing from Chapter 3...**

There was no answer so he knocked again, much louder the second time.

"Annabelle?" He shouted through the door, "Are you all right?"

There was the sound of a sharp curse, and Sherlock heard what he supposed was another box tumbling off the couch to the ground.

A few seconds later, she replied, "¿Quién está ahí? ¿Es usted, Harry?"1

Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly at her response in Spanish, then responded in kind. "No, es Sherlock, su vecino. Te oí llorar. ¿Puedo entrar y ayudar en algo?"2

It was quiet for a few moments, and he was about to open the door himself, until he heard a distinctive shuffle-clunk, shuffle-clunk approaching the door. It opened a crack, and he saw Annabelle's tear stained face peeking through at him. She frowned and spoke, this time in English.

"Did you say Sherlock, as in Sherlock Holmes?"

"Ah, yes- like I said, I heard quite a ruckus and was just checking that you were unharmed."

"You heard-? Do you mean to say you were already here?" she was leaning on the doorframe, looking confused and fragile.

He paused before answering slowly, "Yes, I live upstairs. Now, whatever is wrong?"

She frowned, then her eyes suddenly snapped to alertness, as if she was remembering something. "Yes, yes! Oh my god, you have to help! I just, I just -" she stammered, her eyes fixed at a point beyond him.

"May I come in?" he said, after a few moments of awkward silence.

She looked back at him and nodded. "Yes. There's something that I have to tell you, or show you. It's extremely important. I think. I just can't remember-"

She turned and limped back into the sitting room, collapsing onto the couch as Sherlock slowly followed, casting his keen eyes all around the flat. The apartment was extremely cluttered, with boxes everywhere, and furniture askew. He noticed a wastebasket to the side of the front door, where a piece of sheet music was discarded. He leaned in and read the title, 'I Dreamed a Dream'. His mouth pursed in a smirk, but he quickly smoothed his expression and followed her into the sitting room.

She sat down on the couch and closed her eyes, catching her breath. Sherlock looked around for an available seat, but every surface was covered in her unpacked belongings, so he simply stood next to the couch. He crossed his arms and tapped his foot impatiently a few times before speaking up.

"Right. Since you're just sitting there, gathering your wits, I'm going to jump right into the fray. You see, it just so happens that I am investigating the murder of a certain George Patel. Who, it just so happens, you know personally. Yesterday morning, the day you moved in, he was found strangled in the same lab where your brother works and where you received treatment. It is obvious that you are aware of something suspicious going on at the Institute, and as it just so happens, I don't believe in coincidences. So why don't you tell me what you know, as that is clearly your entire reason for being here. The way I see it, the sooner I solve this crime, the sooner you and your wretched piano can remove from my building."

He clapped his hands together and looked at her expectantly. She opened her eyes, but instead of turning her attention to him, she slowly sat up and turned to look at the aforementioned instrument, which was still clumsily set in front of the bay window. "The piano...yes, yes! That's the key-," she whispered.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up quizzically as Annabelle slowly made her way over to the instrument, leaning heavily on her cane. She sat down on the piano bench and began ghosting her fingers over the keys, muttering to herself.

"It's been running through my head since I woke up last week, this song. But it's not just a song, it's something more. I think it's a message to myself, and to you. Something so important, I imprinted it on my very soul before-"

She began playing an odd, syncopated tune. Sherlock grimaced. He despised this type of non-melodic trash. Her right hand swept expertly across a long sequence of random notes which could scarcely be called a tune, while her left hand sounded chords and arpeggios, most of which didn't seem to fit with the moving line at all. Strangely, she utilized only the middle two octaves of the keyboard, her hands never once leaving that small section. The performance lasted less than a minute, to Sherlock's relief. Once she had stopped, she turned to look at him, wearing a triumphant expression.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Congratulations. I didn't think anything could be worse than Les Mis, but you've enlightened me. Now, can we get back to the murder?"

She glanced over at the wastebasket near the front door and seemed momentarily surprised, then shook her head. "I thought you were supposed to be clever. Don't you see? The tonality of the piece is irrelevant! It's some kind of adapted Schoenberg matrix, but there's a strange pattern to the tone rows. That's where I must have hidden the message."

The side of his mouth quirked. "Let's pretend I believe what you yourself are not even sure about; that you somehow hid vital information in that little 'song' you just subjected me to. Let's imagine that later on, I will help you decipher the message in the music. But in the meantime, could you please focus and tell me why you think someone killed George Patel!"

She closed the piano lid and rested her head on it, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. "Oh, poor George. I knew something was going on. I told Harry, but he didn't believe me. He said I was confused, and I am, I mean I was, but I wrote everything down, you see, everything I noticed that didn't fit. But I can't find my journal now. All I have left is the song, and now I can't remember how I encoded it or why." She sighed and wiped her face on her sleeve.

Sherlock flopped down on the couch and put his head in his hands, "Let's just try to answer some basic questions. What exactly did you tell Harry?"

"That they were trying to kill me. And they've succeeded, I suppose. I don't have much time left.."

"Who was trying to kill you?"

"The doctors at the Cancer Research Institute. Not Harry, he works there as well. But Dr. Garrett and maybe Dr. Smith-Michaelson, and probably Dr. Anders as well."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose and then placed his hands together before speaking.

"Am I correct in assuming that you are in the late stages of brain cancer? Wait, of course I am. Just nod your head unless you need to contradict me."

She opened her mouth to argue, but then just nodded.

"And you have exhausted all treatment options?"

She looked at her hands and nodded again.

"You are, in fact, dying of cancer?"

She glared at him in warning, inclining her head slightly.

"Alright. You can speak now. Tell me how exactly your doctors have succeeded in 'killing you' as you are in fact dying of an illness, and not something nefarious. Oh, and explain why they would bother in the first place."

"You sound just like Harry!" Her fists were balled at her sides, and her voice rose in volume. "He didn't take me seriously, but George did! George was the only one that didn't patronize me when I told him my suspicions. And now they've killed him for it! But it wasn't just me, you see - they were experimenting on all of us, all the patients in my group, I'm sure of it!"

"Of course they were experimenting on everyone in your group, you all volunteered for an experimental study!"

"I had evidence...I confided in Harry, in George, and I wrote everything I noticed down, but I knew they were watching me. That's why I wrote the song, because they wouldn't recognize that for what it was."

"Gods, Annabelle, you don't even recognize it for what it is. Just think back to your time at the Institute. Try to conjure up a memory - anything you saw that sparked suspicion or fear. I have to know what they were doing to you and the other patients!"

She cradled her forehead and sighed, frustration etched into her delicate features.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I can't remember. Everything was so clear before, but then I woke up a week ago and Harry said I had been in a coma, that I almost died. Dr. Garrett claimed they had exhausted all my treatment options, and discharged me from the study. But I didn't want to stay at my brother's house any longer, so George found me this apartment, and set everything up with Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock had been impatiently tapping his foot during her tearful monologue, pondering the irony of a witness who was willing to talk, yet unable to relay any useful information. But when she spoke the victim's name, he looked up in interest.

"George Patel arranged for you to move here?"

"Yes, he was Dr. Garrett's personal assistant, but he did a lot of liaising with patients as well. He was such a good friend-" she started to sniff again.

"Please, hold it together for just five more minutes, can you do that for me? It's vital that you tell me why, out of all the available flats in London, he chose this one."

"You asshole! George-"

"Why this flat, Annabelle?!"

"I don't know!"

"Very well, I'll work it out on my own. Think, think, think!" He yanked on his hair with both hands, then took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "You wanted out of your brother's house and George found this flat, which just happens to be in the same building where the world's only consulting detective lives. My address isn't well known, but it's easy to discover, especially if he was one of John's blog stalkers, or in of one of my fan clubs. He must have seen Mrs. Hudson's advert, and put two-and-two together."

He opened his eyes and fixed them blankly on the wall opposite while Annabelle watched intently. As he spoke, he waved his hands in the air in front of him, as if he were sorting through objects only he could see.

"He worked for five years in a lab which you claim is in the business of killing its patients, even though they apparently failed at their job with you. You say you confided your suspicions, whatever they were, in him. And George, being a compassionate sort, took you seriously. But the important thing, is that unlike you, his brain was all in one piece."

"You inconsiderate-" she tried to interject, but he held up a finger to silence her. She snapped her mouth shut, shaking her head in resignation. He narrowed his eyes at the blank wall, still flourishing his hands as he visualized the numerous possibilities, examining some, rejecting others, then stopping, as a particular idea caught his attention.

"Maybe he looked into your concerns and found a criminal element. But someone was on to him, and he knew it. He couldn't go to the police for some reason; if I'm right, and I always am, I'd say he was protecting someone. So he arranged for you to move into my building, putting a vital witness easily within my reach if something happened to him."

"So you believe me?" she said hopefully.

Sherlock glanced over at her and snorted. "You haven't given me anything to believe in! It's clear something illicit happened at the Institute, but if I am to get anything of use from that damaged brain of yours, it shall have to be pulled out of you sideways. How to do it? That is the question."

He cocked his head, examining her like a puzzle. Her mouth was hanging open in shock.

"How does someone as horrible as you even function in society?" she asked, her voice shrill.

"Not well, but thank you for asking. First things first, you claim to have written your suspicions down in a journal." He glanced around at the chaos still remaining from her move. "I'm not surprised you haven't found it. Let's start by going through all your belongings. What does it look like?"

"No." she said, shaking her head.

"I beg your pardon?" he retorted.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are an ass. I'm tired, heart-broken over George, and hurt by your inconsiderate manner. My friends are going to be here at any minute to help me get settled, so kindly leave. We can talk about George and the Institute tomorrow morning. Come by at 10 o'clock, with a mind to behaving like a decent human being." She held her hand out towards the front door, dismissing him.

"Oh, so my investigation is to be at your leisure, then? This is obstruction-"

"Until tomorrow, Mr. Holmes." She said in a soft, quavering voice, almost a plea.

Sherlock's self-righteous glare faltered in the face of her grief. He uncrossed his arms, then stood up from the couch. He walked slowly towards the door, but before leaving, turned back to her without meeting her eyes and said, "I'm sorry for your loss, Annabelle." He cleared his throat, then continued hesitantly, "George seems to have been a good man."

"He was a wonderful man, and a good friend," she said, staring purposefully at her feet.

He ran one hand nervously through his hair, then spoke again, this time trying to catch her eyes.

"We'll talk tomorrow then. I promise you, Annabelle, I'll solve this and bring the culprits to justice. It's what I do."

"I know," she said, turning back to the piano.

He looked between her and the door, as if conflicted, then shook his head and stepped out into the hallway, closing it softly behind him. Sherlock stood in the stairwell for a moment, leaning against the wall, then pulled out his mobile. He scanned through the history; he had three missed calls from John. His finger hovered over the callback button, but then he scowled and put the phone back in his pocket.

As he started up the stairs to his own flat, pondering his next move in the investigation, he was startled back to the present by the sound of the outside door slamming open and the voices of several people chattering noisily. Loudest of all was a querulous female voice exclaiming, "-and god knows why! Tell us Harry! Did Alice finally chase Anna off?"

Sherlock smiled, his eyes narrowing slyly. "Ah, Harry. Yes, do tell."

* * *

1 "Who is it? Is it you, Harry?"

2 "No, it is Sherlock, your neighbor. I heard you crying. May I come in and help?


	6. Chapter 6

_Sherlock was startled back to the present by the sound of the outside door slamming open and the voices of several people chattering noisily. Loudest of all was a querulous female voice exclaiming, "-and god knows why! Tell us Harry! Did Alice finally chase Anna off?"_

_Sherlock smiled, his eyes narrowing slyly. "Ah, Harry. Yes, do tell."_

* * *

**Two weeks ago, continuing from Chapter 5…**

Sherlock bounded up the stairs and immediately saw Dr. Harry Fairbanks, who was holding three stacked boxes with one hand while propping the front door open with the other. Several people were streaming indoors; Sherlock counted six ladies of Annabelle's approximate age and one disgruntled looking man who was also carrying several boxes. He looked at Sherlock and rolled his eyes, then followed the group downstairs to Anabelle's flat.

Harry made to follow, but Sherlock stepped in front of him, saying, "Dr. Fairbanks? I'm Sherlock Holmes." He extended his hand, but Harry hesitated for a long moment before reciprocating the friendly gesture, openly glaring at the detective. Sherlock gripped Harry's outstretched hand tightly and placed his other arm around the man's shoulders, steering him towards his flat across the hall. Harry started to protest, but found himself firmly embraced and moving along beside Sherlock, who was still talking. "I believe we met, or perhaps I should say, encountered each other, yesterday. As it happens, I'm in the midst of an investigation and believe you might be of some assistance."

Harry stopped in his tracks and shook his head. "No, I'm here to see my sister. But feel free to call my office and make an appointment with my secretary. Now excuse me-"

"Harry, Harry, what a coincidence!" Sherlock interrupted. "That's exactly what I want to talk about, 'The Cancer Research Institute'. Such a prestigious and supposedly warm-hearted organization. So why would someone kill an employee and leave their nicely arranged body in the very lab that does such important life-saving work?"

Harry visibly paled and swallowed. Sherlock leaned in, bringing his face only inches from the shorter man's and continued. "I hope you're not going to make this difficult, Harry. If you insist on going downstairs before I'm done with you, I'll have to call Inspector Lestrade and ask him to bring you to the Yard for questioning. Or you could just step inside my apartment and we can have a friendly chat. Your choice."

Harry's face reddened and he set the parcels down in the hallway, then looked back up at Sherlock. "I'll give you ten minutes," he said, then walked briskly past him into the detective's apartment.

Sherlock followed behind, studying the young doctor as he stopped in front of the sitting room window, his arms crossed. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead, then shoved both his hands in his pockets. He turned back to face Sherlock, who had closed the front door and was leaning against it, relaxed, his eyes narrowed.

"Well? What? What do you want from me?" Harry said, obviously flustered. "So what if I work at the Institute! I don't know anything about George-"

"Liar." Sherlock said quietly.

"What? Who-who do you think you are? You have no idea what you're talking about!"

"You know very well who I am, so when I call you a liar, you can trust that I damn well know exactly what I'm talking about! Now stop wasting my time, and tell me where you were the night of George Patel's death!"

"You know- you don't know anything! You don't know me! How do you get off making judgements, calling me a liar-"

"Fine, let's make a list." Sherlock began ticking off on his fingers. "You're defensive and sweating like a pig. Your emotional responses are at odds with your words. You won't look me in the eyes, and you've put the couch between us. Everything about you, the tone of your voice, the timing of your reactions, your body language, your appearance, it all screams deceit." He dropped his hands to his sides and his voice lowered to a menacing whisper. "Still want to claim I don't know you? Because I can keep going. Within the first two minutes of our acquaintance I deduced several sordid details that your precious Annabelle has probably never suspected."

"You leave her out of this!"

"No. She's obviously connected somehow to George's murder. Tell me, does she know that you're in love with her? Is that why she moved out?"

Harry stumbled back against the window and put a hand to his chest, his face white with rage.

"You, you sick bastard, how dare you-"

Sherlock took slow, predatory steps towards Harry as he spoke. "There's more to your overprotective brother routine than simple lust, though. You're hiding something from her. You have a secret you're absolutely petrified she's going to discover. What don't you want her to know? Perhaps that you murdered her best friend? But why? Was she spending too much time with him for your liking? Maybe you have a habit of sabotaging all her relationships?"

Harry strode to the middle of the room and shoved Sherlock backwards. "No!" He shoved again, but Sherlock didn't waver, just stood there, watching the smaller man. "I'm not a killer! I love Annabelle, yes, and I am protective, but with good reason! She's dying! My baby sister is dying!"

At this admission he shrunk backwards from Sherlock and collapsed onto the couch, tears streaming down his face.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned. "I know that, Harry. But my line of work is concerned with deaths by unnatural causes. And if you are as innocent as you claim, you should have no problem telling me where you were the night of George's murder."

Harry sighed and wrung his hands before speaking. "She tried to tell me some things during her stay at the Institute, but I just blew her off. What if I could have prevented George's death somehow? She'd never forgive me, and I couldn't live with that."

Sherlock sat down next to Harry and placed his hand on the man's shoulder. "Harry?"

"Yes?" Harry sniffed.

"I don't care." Harry glanced up, incredulity and irritation in his expression. Sherlock nodded amiably and went on. "I don't care about your regrets or your twisted family dynamic. I'm here to solve a murder. So, tell me what I want to know. And what Annabelle thought she knew, since she can't relate it clearly. God knows I've tried to extract it from her."

"You interviewed my sister?! You went into her flat? She's in no condition-"

"Exactly, Harry. That's why I need you to tell me everything she claimed she heard, saw, felt, dreamed, whatever. Oh, and if you actually have any useful first hand information of your own, feel free to share."

Harry groaned and leaned back against the couch.

"You have to understand, Annabelle suffers from paranoia. That was what initially clued us in to her illness a couple of years ago. She started having trouble at work because she kept accusing colleagues of stealing her research. I knew something wasn't right with her. You should have seen her before, Sherlock - she was brilliant, kind, witty-"

"Mind on track, Harry."

He cleared his throat and continued. "She collapsed in the middle of a lecture one day. At first the doctors thought she had just fainted from exhaustion and overwork, but she didn't wake up, not for two days. That's when we found out she had brain cancer. It was a slow growing glioblastoma, and over the next eighteen months she endured all the standard treatments: surgery, chemo, and radiation. Through it all, she experienced mood swings and extreme paranoia, along with all the usual physical and mental side effects. She didn't trust anyone except me, and often claimed the doctors and the nurses were trying to kill her. So when we joined this last experimental study at the Institute, and she started harping on Dr. Garrett, I ignored her. You can't blame me for that!"

He looked at Sherlock, who sighed and said, "Is it a congenital Fairbanks trait, you and your sister's inability to answer simple questions? What exactly did she claim?"

"Oh, just nonsense!" Harry frowned, rubbing his temples. "She would say, 'They're not giving me the right medications. My chart isn't correct. The side-effects aren't what they should be. Dr. Garrett lied about the timing of my injections. The vaccine is the wrong colour-' and on. And she would show me this blasted journal, which was nothing but page after page of random numbers, and tell me the proof was all there! It was all absolutely ridiculous!"

"Was it?"

"Yes! Trust me, no one wanted to believe in Annabelle more than me, but there is not a doubt in my mind but that she was completely delusional. I'm a specialist in cutting edge oncology research, and oversaw her treatment with a fine-toothed comb. I made a bit of a nuisance of myself in the lab, to tell the truth. And through it all, her care was absolutely by the book."

"Oh, Harry, I want to believe you, I really do." Sherlock said, shaking his head, then looked back up at the young doctor, his fingers steepled in front of him. "But I don't."

"What! I'm telling you-"

Sherlock held up a hand for silence.

"Any other person might think that your behavior was simply that of a grieving brother, but I know better," Sherlock said quietly. "The quavering undercurrent to your voice, your distracted demeanor, the way you grit your teeth and breath deeply, calming yourself? There's sadness and dread there, yes, but also guilt. Guilt and fear. Why, Harry? If everything she told you was so ridiculous, what don't you want her to know? Or should I say, what don't you want me to find out, since you seem pretty adept at keeping her in the dark?"

Harry shuddered as the tears began to cascade down his face again. "Please, Mr. Holmes, please, you can't tell her, I couldn't bear it if she knew. I already can't live with myself-"

"What Harry? What did you do?"

Harry gulped, as if gathering the courage to speak, his hands in tight fists on his knees. He drew in a slow breath, then spoke. "When she first volunteered for the experimental treatment, she was assigned to a different test group. At the last moment I switched her into my vaccine study, without telling her. I thought the cocktail we were testing was more promising, but it turned out to be a disaster. The side-effects were devastating and her cancer growth actually accelerated. Crueller still, the original test-group had very good results. If I hadn't moved her into my group, she might have recovered, she might not be dying today. It's all my fault."

Sherlock leaned back and surveyed the blubbering man with an expression that was almost sympathetic. "So that's your secret. And it has nothing to do with George's death, or illegal goings-on at the Institute."

Harry nodded, wiping his face with his handkerchief, then blowing his nose.

Sherlock tapped his fingers absentmindedly on the arm of the couch, then ran his hand through his hair. "You still haven't told me where you were the night of George's murder," he said quietly.

"Haven't I?" Harry replied, dabbing at his eyes with his soiled handkerchief.

Sherlock shook his head, studying the other man carefully.

"I was at home." Harry said, staring at his feet. "I spent the whole night by Annabelle's bedside."

"Can she vouch for that?"

"In theory, yes. But she was in and out of consciousness, and her memory's far from reliable these days. If you need more proof, you can talk to my wife, Alice. She was home that night, and checked on us periodically."

"Fine." Sherlock said. "Can you think of any suspicious interactions between George and other employees, or perhaps patients?" He asked in a bored tone.

"Actually, now that you mention it-" Harry blew his nose again.

"Yes?" Sherlock said, staring disconsolately at the ceiling.

"Word around the lab was that George had an affair with Dr. Michaelson. Her husband came to the lab one day a few weeks ago and threatened him."

"Incredible!" Sherlock sat up straight.

"I know, everyone thought George was such a saint-"

"No, what's incredible is that you might actually have given me useful information."

Harry shrugged and Sherlock jumped up off the couch.

"Finally, an actual lead," the detective said, rubbing his hands together. He looked down at Harry and grimaced. "Feel free to collect yourself and join the party downstairs. But don't think you're rid of me just yet."

Harry met his eyes briefly, then looked down at his hands. Sherlock removed to the kitchen, pretending to put the kettle on. He leaned against the counter, out of Harry's line of sight, until the doctor stood up and silently left the apartment, closing the door behind him. Then Sherlock walked to the window and stared out, his arms crossed.

"One sibling wants to tell the truth but can't, the other knows the truth but conceals it. Someone out there is having a laugh at my expense." He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and tapped at the screen. "Now, there's a certain name I've been hearing a lot - ah, there you are." He put the phone to his ear, still speaking to himself, "Let's see if Dr. Marova Garrett gets the joke."


	7. Chapter 7

_John saw Sherlock's eyes scan across the flat to the sitting room where Annabelle was giggling at something Mary had said. A small smile played over his features, but vanished before John could be sure of what he had seen. The detective folded his arms and looked back to his friend._

"_Fine. Go on up to my flat. I'll be out of here by 11:45 and tell you everything. Happy now?"_

* * *

**Today, continuing from Chapter 4…**

"Happy? Am I happy? Well, since you're kind enough to ask, no, I'm not happy. I invited myself to tea with a total stranger just to have a chance to speak with you." John said.

"Now is not the time, John-"

"There's no such thing as the right time with you, Sherlock. At any moment we could be attacked, or you could suddenly have a brilliant idea and run off. This seems like an ordinary tea date, but you could be running an elaborate scam you haven't clued me into, because you want my behavior to be 'more natural'. That's happened more than once."

"What do you want me to say?" Sherlock lifted his hands up in exasperation.

"Isn't it obvious?" John took a step closer to him, and placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "I thought things were finally good between us, after you made mostly nice at the wedding. But it's obvious that you've been avoiding me since the baby came, and I want to know why."

Sherlock gently removed his friends hands and took a step back, looking at the floor. "I'm just trying to put off the inevitable, I suppose."

"The inevitable what?" John tried to maneuver himself into Sherlock's line of sight.

"The slow, painful descent from friendship into casual acquaintance." Sherlock met John's eyes with a glare, as if daring him to disagree.

"If anything changes between us, it will be because you pushed me away!"

"You left! You got married and began breeding!" Sherlock spit these last out in disgust.

"Breeding, seriously? Wait, I left?! You pretended to be dead and didn't tell me for two years!" John shoved Sherlock's chest back with both hands, and for a moment, he seemed ready to physically attack the detective. But Sherlock's shoulders slumped in response, and John stepped away and took a deep breath, calming himself before speaking again.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring that up," he waved his hand, dismissing the old argument. "What I'm trying to say, is that I accept you for all your asinine foibles, Sherlock, because you gave me something to live for during a terrible time in my life. And I plan on staying by your side as long as you'll let me, because you need someone to care for you and force you to admit that you care as well."

"I don't need anyone," Sherlock whispered.

"The fact that you would say that just proves my point." John shook his head, almost smiling.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, then turned back to John, a pensive, almost vulnerable look on his face. "Maybe I can't bear the thought of putting you in danger any longer, John. Mary and the baby rely on you, so how could I face them if something happened to you?"

John's face softened for a moment, but then his eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, shaking his head.

"No. No, Sherlock, stop it. Stop trying to manipulate me! I know you don't have the empathy to feel that kind of guilt."

Sherlock groaned and shrugged his shoulders, irritated.

"And regardless of the danger," John continued, "it's my choice to go out on the beat with you. I won't be able to as often as I did before, it's true. But I still want you as a part of my life. Don't shut me out."

"I -" Sherlock groaned, pulling at his hair in agitation. "Why is my life becoming so complicated? You never used to force me into these types of conversations! You've changed, John!"

"When you met me, I was an empty shell, so I hope to God I have changed. And remember that bit where you were gone for two years? I moved on, yes, but I'm still me!"

"This is worse than a Serbian interrogation. I certainly feel as if I'm under duress." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"You are such a child, do you know that? This is what normal people do when they have issues, Sherlock, they talk. They confront their feelings and if necessary, work towards a compromise so the relationship can progress!" John shouted, then looked nervously back towards the sitting room, where the ladies were still talking.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "John, I prohibit you from ever using the words 'feelings', 'compromise', or 'relationship' in a sentence ever again."

"Don't play Spock with me -" John said, his voice lowered back to a near whisper, "-I'm not the only one that's changed over the past few years. I've seen the sentiment peeking out of your eyes when you think no one's watching. Admit it, you don't just solve cases for the fun of it anymore. There's a tiny part of you now that actually wants to help people, just for the sake of doing the right thing."

"So what if my motives are more multi-faceted than before? I'm a complex man."

"You are full of it, that's what you are. Just answer me this. You've been spending an awful lot of time with Annabelle - don't ask, Mrs. Hudson told me - she's not as dim as you think. Tell me truthfully now, are you pretending to care for her, or does she actually mean something to you- something more than a key to solving this case?" John said this last with an accusatory tone, but Sherlock could hear the smallest bit of hope creeping into the question.

Sherlock looked at his feet, and John saw - was that shame? - in his friend's face. "I tried playing a part at first, I admit, but it didn't work, and now-" The noise of explosive laughter drifted into the kitchen from the adjoining room, shattering the moment. Sherlock looked away from John and peered around the corner at Annabelle and Mary, who were covering their mouths with napkins while shooting conspiratorial glances towards the kitchen.

"What Sherlock? What is it that you want from her?" John insisted.

Sherlock rubbed his face with both hands and groaned, then clapped his palms together.

"What I want, is to nip two conversations in the bud," he said, giving John a quick nod and walking back into the sitting room. The ladies were laughing and speaking in French to each other as Sherlock rejoined them at the table.

"S'il vous plaît, ne me dites pas la raison pour laquelle vous vous moquez, je ne suis pas intéressé à en discuter."1 he said.

"As you wish, Sherlock. But where's the tea?" Annabelle asked in English.

"John's getting it. Chop, chop, John!" Sherlock said, waving at John, who was still in the kitchen, glaring at his friend. He gritted his teeth and set to refilling the teapot and heating it.

"And I'm afraid John and Mary have to go in just a few minutes, they don't want to meet your brother." Sherlock said to Annabelle.

"Oh, is it nearly noon?" She said, and Mary looked at her watch.

"No, it's only 11 o'clock," she said.

"Then I insist you stay until 11:45, unless of course you must leave sooner," Annabelle said.

Sherlock opened his mouth to object, but at that moment John was entering with the fresh pot of tea, and said, "Thank you, Annabelle, we will." He gave her a winning smile, then a wink to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.

"So," said Mary. "Tell us how you two became friends. Not many people know their neighbors these days."

Sherlock looked to Annabelle, who frowned slightly. "Well, I moved in two weeks ago, like I told you earlier, and-"

She stopped for a moment, concentrating, then continued, "-I can't exactly recall how we first met, but I don't think I liked you very much." She looked over Sherlock and grinned. He looked strangely abashed. "And then it seemed like you were always around." He nodded slowly.

"At first we just argued a lot, about my brother, or the situation with George-" her expression fell and he leaned forward an inch. "-but at some point, and I don't know how it happened, he began behaving himself. And it turns out he's not so bad to have around."

Sherlock shrugged and looked at her, then John. "My initial efforts were ineffective, so I tried a different approach."

"Well, that's what people do, in a relationship," John said, "when things aren't working out, they don't give up, they talk about it, try something new-"

Sherlock interrupted, "I told you not to use that word, John-"

"The two of you should sort this out," Annabelle said quietly. "There's really no time to waste, is there, Sherlock? You think you have forever, but no one does-"

"Annabelle-" he whispered, lightly placing his hand over hers.

John and Mary looked at each other sadly, and reached for each other's hands under the table. Annabelle gave Sherlock a small smile, then picked up her pencil to continue her crossword puzzle. John noticed that her pencil was pointed at both ends, each a different color. She was filling in the across answers in red, the down in blue. After a few moments of watching her in silence, Sherlock hesitantly reached for his paper, then returned to the obituaries, while occasionally looking at his phone, as if checking his email.

"So, this is what you do, then, every morning?" John said, breaking the silence after a few minutes. "Anna does the crossword and you read the obituaries? Lovely."

Anna looked up and smiled fondly at John, nodding. Sherlock ignored him.

John looked over at Mary and shrugged. She tilted her head towards Annabelle and he sighed helplessly. He leaned over to look at the puzzle she was solving.

"My Dad used to do the crossword every morning. Do you mind if I have a look at that with you?"

"Honestly, John, leave her to her damned game-" Sherlock growled.

"It's alright, Sherlock, I don't mind." Annabelle said. "Although I'm afraid I don't quite play it correctly, I have my own way of solving the puzzle."

"How's that?" John asked.

"She cheats." Sherlock interjected.

Annabelle raised an eyebrow and Mary said, "How so? How can one cheat at the crossword when the answers aren't released until the next day?"

"Annabelle speaks five languages and if she can't think of an appropriate answer in English, she resorts to either French, Spanish, Italian, or Latin."

"I suppose that increases the number of possible answers to each question, but I don't see how it amounts to cheating." Mary said, the side of her mouth quirking in a smile. "And you have to admit, it is rather impressive."

"Thank you," said Annabelle, a pleased look on her face.

"I don't have to admit anything," Sherlock said testily. "What would be truly impressive is if for once you limited yourself to a single language, not necessarily the intended one, and actually solved the crossword naturally. By increasing the possible dialect base 4-fold, you decrease the difficulty by the same amount. In point of fact, you're being lazy."

"Honestly, Sherlock, for once in your life, could you not be an ass?" John pleaded.

"Why do you resent this simple diversion, Sherlock?" Annabelle asked, looking directly at him. "I say nothing of your morbid daily fascination with the obituaries, although it is a constant reminder that one of these days, you will find my name there among the dead."

"It's not a morbid fascination, Anna, it's for my work. I can't help it if my mind never really stops running-" he stuttered, absentmindedly folding the paper and setting it aside. "In any case, I doubt I'll be able to read your entry."

Her face softened, but she folded her arms, still frowning. Sherlock looked up at John and Mary, his eyes pleading. They stared back at him, nonplussed.

"I - I'll stop reading the obituaries at tea, if you wish," he said, resigned. "In truth, I can find them online anytime I need to. But I need something to occupy me every morning while you're botching that crossword. Honestly, look at 14-down. 'Noble Gas' it says, and you've answered 'Boron'. That's clearly incorrect, it should be Xenon, because Boron is a metalloid. But you never take my advice. In fact, I think you used Boron incorrectly yesterday as well."

At this Sherlock leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, looking contemplative.

"No, Boron must be the answer," she said. Her eyes had taken on a faraway look, and Sherlock leaned forward, peering at the puzzle, not listening to her. He reached out and snatched the slip of paper from in front of her and began studying it.

"And here at 3 across -" he said, pointing at the puzzle, "-the question is 'Relative McCartneys, Jenny to Melissa', and you put 'mother', but the answer is cousin. And here, at 22 down - 'Island nation, formerly of N.Z' you wrote 'Japan', when the answer is obviously Samoa."

"See here, Sherlock - what do you care? She didn't ask for your help." John said, exasperated.

"Where are your puzzles from earlier this week?" Sherlock asked. "Has Harry put out the recycling yet?"

"Ah, I don't know -" Annabelle said, folding her arms uncomfortably. "What day is it? I hope it's not Monday, I teach piano lessons on Mondays, don't I?" She reached for her cane, which was hanging on the back of her chair, and slowly stood and started limping towards her bedroom. As she walked, she was mumbling to herself, "Mondays are piano lessons, then Tuesdays I lecture at Uni, then Wednesdays - what happens on Wednesdays?"

As she stumbled away, Sherlock seemed momentarily torn, then turned to Mary. "Could you go watch over Anna for a few minutes, Mary? She's fuging, but I have to go look through the garbage. Her afternoon care-worker should be here by 11:30, so it won't be for long."

He jumped up out of his chair and started towards the kitchen, but immediately turned around and spoke again. "Just don't let her call anyone or go anywhere. And don't let her take any additional painkillers."

He took a few more steps towards the kitchen, then turned back again to Mary, who was wearing an expression halfway between annoyance and amusement. "And don't tell her anything about her condition or where her brother is, or where she's living, and change the subject if George comes up." He paused to think, then continued. "And if she starts switching languages, don't let on that you don't understand, just keep nodding your head."

He jogged around the kitchen corner, out of her line of sight, only to peek his head out moments later. "And don't let her take a nap, even if she says she's tired, that will interfere with her meds. Oh! And no sugar or alcohol. No bother, right? Right!"

He bounded off through the kitchen to the back door of the flat, which led out onto a small porch. Mary was left standing with her mouth open, staring between the open doorway to Anna's bedroom and her husband. She lifted one eyebrow and John shrugged his shoulders helplessly, then gave his wife a kiss on the cheek before running after Sherlock.

Mary sighed and looked upwards, then walked towards the open door down the hall, where she could hear Annabelle talking to herself.

"I distinctly remember hiring a babysitter so I could have the afternoon off," she grumbled under her breath, then stepped carefully into Annabelle's room.

* * *

1 "Please don't tell me why you're laughing, I'm not interested."


	8. Chapter 8

_Sherlock walked to the window and stared out, his arms crossed._

"_One sibling wants to tell the truth but can't, the other knows the truth but conceals it. Someone out there is having a laugh at my expense." He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and tapped at the screen. "There's a certain name I've been hearing a lot - there you are." He put the phone to his ear, still speaking to himself, "Let's see if Dr. Marova Garrett gets the joke."_

* * *

**Two weeks ago, continuing from Chapter 6…**

After his conversation with Harry, Sherlock spent the better part of an hour on the phone, trying to procure Dr. Marova Garrett. When that failed, he called Dr. Julia Smith-Michaelson's office, but she wasn't available either. After cycling through no less than six secretaries, three office managers, and finally the Vice President in charge of Public Relations, he learned that nearly half of Lab B, the section George Patel had worked for, was out of the country at a professional conference in Brussels. Drs. Garrett and Smith-Michaelson had left early that morning to represent the CRI's interests and showcase their own research, and weren't slated to return for nearly two weeks.

Sherlock found their absence unsettling, although Vice President so-and-so insisted that staff traveled frequently for work, and that this meeting was of utmost importance, with oncology experts from all over the world in attendance.

But his phone tag adventures were not a total loss, as he managed to bully Mr. V.P. into arranging a series of formal interviews, to be held that afternoon, with the remaining staff from George's lab. Sherlock felt very hopeful - expectant even, that the absence of upper management would have a loosening effect on people's tongues. Mr. V.P. promised him free reign to question everyone in the department: head doctors, junior doctors, nurses, lab techs, and volunteers, in fact whomever he deemed important to the investigation.

Reasonably happy with the outcome, he stepped out of his apartment and made his way to the hospital. An hour later, he sat in the cafe at the ground level of the medical complex nursing a cup of tea, awaiting his upcoming 'appointments', and trying his best to ignore the over-friendly young barista who kept sending shameless winks and grins his way.

He tapped his foot impatiently and tried to busy his mind, pulling together everything he already knew about the case, which wasn't much. That was why he was here, after all, to gather more information. And he sincerely hoped that Mr. V.P. had arranged for him to utilize an office or conference room for the interviews. He hated chasing down professionals on their own turf; from office, to lab, to board room, to public toilet. It was much nicer when they lined up outside the interrogation room and waited their turn.

He looked up at the large clock over the information desk. It was one forty-five in the afternoon, which left more than half an hour until the meetings began. As he glanced back down to his teacup, his eyes accidentally crossed the path of the barista, who was now cleaning tables in his line of sight. She wiggled her fingers at him in a childish wave. He sighed and turned his chair to face the other direction, silently considering the travel schedule of George Patel's colleagues. If they didn't return next week after the conference ended, that might answer some questions, but would also likely put them beyond his reach.

He frowned at his mobile, spoke a name into the microphone, and then held it up to his ear, waiting. There was no answer. He glanced at the time again and his mouth curled into a small smile. He dialed again. No answer. He dialed a third time, and finally the line was picked up.

"Sorry to call during your afternoon ablutions Mycroft, but I need some information." Sherlock said curtly.

"I've told you not to call between 1:30 and 2 o'clock on Mondays, Sherlock. Is that too much to ask? You know this time is sacred to me." Mycroft replied.

"Nothing is sacred to you Mycroft."

"I have my hobbies. But I wouldn't expect you to understand, as they don't involve controlled substances."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and raked his fingers through his hair. "I suppose since you consider yourself practically a minor deity, any or all of your undertakings could be seen as sacred from a certain point of view," he said acerbically.

"And I thought you'd never see the light. Wait a minute, 'minor'?"

"Yes, minor. And I acknowledge no 'light'," Sherlock replied.

"But isn't that step two?" Mycroft said mildly. "Acknowledging that only a higher power can restore you to sanity? And I'll be here, brother, if ever you chose to avail of me. Or isn't that why you called? I'm still waiting for answers on Moriarty's unscheduled television appearance."

"That investigation's in process, Mycroft. Right now I need everything you know about the doctors in the Gliobastoma Unit at the Cancer Research Insititute in central London - surnames Garrett, Smith-Michaelson, Fairbanks, Singh, and Anders. Any one of them might be involved in a murder I'm investigating, and I'm concerned because Garrett and Smith-Michaelson have just left the country." Sherlock gestured with his free hand as he spoke, frustrated by Mycroft's disinterested banter.

"I see. Now when you say your investigation on Moriarty is in process, I assume you mean that you've hit a dead end and are waiting for a new development, like a terrorist attack or a string of murders. That's disappointing, because when I let you off that plane I was hoping for something a little more prescient, a little more preventative, shall we say?"

"I don't point and click, Mycroft." Sherlock stood up, agitated. "If my timing and methods aren't good enough for you, feel free to send me back to Serbia. Otherwise leave me be. And don't expect me to shuck all my other cases in the meantime. I need everything you have on those doctors."

"That's all? You don't want our file on Anna as well? She's quite a compelling woman, and her condition so tragic. It didn't strike you that she could be involved? Or did it?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and took a short breath before speaking. "Send me your files on those doctors. And put a tail on Garrett and Smith-Michaelson. Make sure they don't disappear after the conference in Brussels. If and when they return to London, I want to be notified immediately. Alright?"

"Fine Sherlock, I'll send you whatever information we have on them. But in return, I want daily updates on your meetings with Annabelle. I do love a farce."

"I'll do no such thing. Gods, when did you become such a bored, pathetic little man?" Sherlock slumped back into his chair and cradled his forehead.

"Pot - kettle, brother dear."

Sherlock slammed the phone down on the table, causing his tea cup to spill over. He cursed and stood up to clean the mess, but the barista rushed over to his side with a cloth to mop it up. He nodded at her and she grinned from ear to ear, then held out her hand, saying, "Hello, Mr. Holmes! I'm Miranda Gilbert, I'm a big fan of yours!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, ignoring the gesture and sat back down, saying, "Of course you are."

She blinked and glanced down at her empty hand before wiping it awkwardly on her apron, then shoved it into her pocket and smiled up at him, undeterred.

"Anyway-" she continued, "-you must be here to interview people about George Patel's murder. Do you think the killer is someone on staff?"

He sat back down at the table and glared at her. "I'd hardly tell you if I knew", he said. "Now unless you have something important to say, kindly move along. And get me another cup of tea."

She took this as an invitation and sat down next to him, leaning forward and grinning conspiratorially. Sherlock's face twitched in irritation and he likewise leaned away, scooting his chair around the edge of the table.

"Well, I certainly hear a lot behind the counter!" She stage-whispered. "All the professional staff come to the cafe, talking about the studies, or troublesome patients, or journal articles they're writing, even complaining about co-workers. You'd be amazed at all the sensitive things they say right in front of the baristas, like we're not even there."

"Somehow I doubt that." Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"For example-" she continued, "-there were some rumors going around that George and Julia were having an affair, but I know that's not true."

"Oh?" Sherlock kept his suddenly piqued interest under wraps, staring at the empty teacup in front of him.

"Yeah, they've hated each other since the day she started work here four years ago." She gave him a confident smile and another wink.

"Perhaps they had a previous relationship which soured," Sherlock said.

She frowned, considering his words. "I don't know about that, but they had a massive argument up on the lab floor on Julia's first day. Which is strange, because George got along with everyone."

"What did they argue about?" Sherlock finally looked up and met her eyes, pressing the point.

Her grin broadened and she shrugged her shoulders. "I dunno - one of the old baristas heard about it from a junior doctor and told me about it, but it was a long time ago."

"Miss Gilbert, I need data. Actual information."

"Oh, call me Miranda, please!" She punched him playfully on the shoulder and he stiffened, then scooted his chair further around the table.

"It was four years ago, like I said." She feigned looking off into the distance, searching for the memory. "I came in for my shift and Julia was my first customer. I remember because she ordered this special drink, called a 'London Fog'. I'd never made one before, and she taught me how. Essentially, it's a cup of earl grey with-"

Sherlock slapped the table in irritation. "I know what a 'London Fog' is, just get on with the story, alright?"

"Right, of course, what was I saying - oh, well after I served Julia her drink, Leeann, who was on first shift, told me that a whole bunch of junior doctors had come into the cafe that morning talking about a loud argument between Julia and George."

"And what were they fighting about?"

She strummed the table for a few moments, then snapped her fingers. "George absolutely refused to work with her. His job was to do clerical work for all the head doctors in Lab B, so they could have fired him right there, but they didn't. The other Doctors; Garrett, Fairbanks, Singh and Anders, they all loved working with him. Eventually an intern was assigned to do administrative tasks for Julia and they let George be."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "That's actually...slightly interesting. Do you know why he refused to work with her?"

"No, he wouldn't say why, he just refused, and threatened to quit if they tried to press it." She dragged her chair right up next to his and leaned one elbow on the table, balancing her chin in the palm of one hand.

He cleared his throat and folded his hands in front of him. "But if the animosity between George and Julia was so well known, why would anyone think they were having an affair?"

"Oh, well no one suspected anything until Julia's husband stormed into the lab a few weeks ago and threatened George." She fluttered her eyelashes.

"What did he say?"

"Just the usual, 'I'm gunna beat the living shite outa you, you little punk' kinda stuff. Macho crap. That's why Mr. Michaelson is winning the staff betting pool right now." At this, she leaned back, the playful smile dropping from her face.

"Betting pool?"

"It's pretty morbid, right?" She looked embarrassed. "Some sicko in IT set up a betting pool on who killed George. Right now Mr. Michaelson is in the lead."

"Who else is in the running?" Sherlock leaned forward, interested in spite of himself.

Miranda shrugged and flipped her hair, her smile returning. "Julia of course. Everyone knows they hated each other. She's who I put my money on. And then Dr. Garrett, probably just because she's the boss. Did you know the junior doctors call her 'The Czar' behind her back? Pretty racist, right? Oh, and Dr. Fairbanks."

"Harry Fairbanks?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

She nodded.

"Why?"

She looked down and her voice took a slightly higher pitch. "It's stupid."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"Ah, well…" She trailed off and looked uncomfortable for the first time. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and she continued. "I think he's sweet, but _some people_ say it's creepy, how attached he is to his sister."

"Annabelle." Sherlock leaned his chair back on two legs, then snapped it to the ground.

"Yeah. It's really sad, her - condition."

Sherlock nodded, averting his eyes.

Miranda sighed despondently, then sat up and smiled, her voice suddenly back to normal volume. "Honestly, I would love to have a big brother that cared that much about me, but _some people_ feel their relationship was unhealthy, if you know what I mean." She raised her eyebrows and glanced around the empty cafe. "I think he's harmless," she continued. "A little too attached maybe, but some families are just really close, you know?"

Sherlock looked at her blankly, and she shrugged. "It's a rubbish reason to vote for him, but the whole thing's pretty sick anyway," she said.

"Who thinks their relationship is unhealthy?" Sherlock asked.

She looked down at her hands. "George did. And Susan Ketterling, one of the junior doctors. I overheard them talking once. They were sitting in that corner booth."

She pointed to the far end of the room.

"I was just cleaning up after the lunch rush one day, and I heard Susan say, "He never leaves her alone with anyone," and George said, "her mental state is delicate, he's just over-protective, because he doesn't want to her go off on another paranoid jag." And then Susan said, "You always think the best of everyone, even though Harry doesn't like you, you're still nice to him." Then they looked up at me and changed the subject, even though I was just sweeping, not eavesdropping on purpose or anything."

"Curious." Sherlock said. "I'll have to speak to Dr. Ketterling. Now, we were talking about the betting pool. Who else is on the short list?"

"Let me think, there's at least a dozen folks who have one vote each, just typical grudge matches. Oh, there's Harry R-, hmm, I can't remember his surname. Anyway he's pretty high up there, but that's because he's the bloke who set up the online poll in the first place. He's a bona fide sicko, if you ask me, treating George's murder like a game. But half the hospital's put in, including myself, so maybe we're all just as demented as he is."

Sherlock glanced up at the clock. Fifteen minutes until his appointment. He looked over at Miranda, who was grinning at him hopefully, her hands folded in front of her on the table. He sighed.

"Tell me about the other doctors in Lab B. Singh and Anders."

"Uh, Dr. Singh, well he's probably the nicest guy in the department. But he takes a lot of sick days and the junior doctors complain about his work being inconsistent. I heard some nurses chatting once about him, wondering why Garrett keeps him around, with him missing so much work. And Dr. Anders? He's not very personable, never leaves any tips for the baristas. Oh, and he drives a real clunker of a car, which is strange, cuz he's got to be loaded, all the doctors are. Let's see, what else...Did you know that Dr. Garrett speaks Japanese? Also she loves kids."

Sherlock closed his eyes and massaged his temples. "Can you think of anything else strange or out of place? Things people might not want to be common knowledge? Any compulsive liars? Drug users? Examples of actual infidelity?"

She squealed in excitement. "Oh, sure! I'll tell you everything I know about everyone!"

Sherlock waved his hands in a 'down girl' gesture, then steepled his fingers. "Just, just stay to the point, all right? Give me the highlights and I'll decide what's pertinent."

"No problem! Let's see..there's the Cz- I mean Dr. Garrett's new PA, Andrew Jameson. He's been half in love with her for years, and it was quite a shock when she promoted him from HR to replace George so quickly. And the lab tech, John Herbst - he'll shag anything on two legs. More than half the staff've had a go, and it's caused quite a bit of drama…."

Sherlock's eyes began to glaze over as Miss Gilbert chattered on, thrilled to share the specialized knowledge she had accumulated over the years. With a concerted effort, he forced himself to mentally record everything she was saying, regardless of how useless it all seemed at first blush. Experience had taught him that the little things were of utmost importance in any investigation, but this was verging on the ridiculous.

His focus returned to the over-friendly barista, who was saying, "...and of course there's Susan Ketterling, who says she's vegan, but she often gets a small cappuccino with real milk, then tells people its soy, what a hypocrite-"

"Yes, Fascinating. But back up a bit. You said Dr. Garrett speaks Japanese?"

"A couple times a year these Japanese doctors visit and they come down to the cafe. They sit and laugh and talk during lunch hour, and Dr. Garrett gabs along with them like she's a native."

"Interesting." Sherlock looked at the clock again and saw that it was five minutes until his appointment. He jumped up from his seat and glanced down at Miss Gilbert, hesitating briefly before saying, "Well, I won't jump to any conclusions, but you may have been helpful. Only time and actual first hand evidence will tell."

"Wow, thanks!" she said, standing up next to him, a little too close for comfort. "Say, where's your buddy, Dr. Watson?" she said, looking around, as if John were hiding behind the rubbish bin. "How's he going to write this case up on the blog if he's not with you?"

Sherlock growled low in his throat and started stepping away backwards, his arms raised. "I know this is hard for the readers to comprehend, but we are not actually attached at the hip. We have separate lives, separate houses - he's married and has a child - he even has an actual day job. So you see, the ways in which our lives diverge are multitudinous!"

He turned to leave, but Miss Gilbert jogged out in front of him, a look of fondness and sympathy on her face. "Oh, no, don't say that, you two were meant to be together!"

Sherlock shook his head and tried to step around her but she blocked him again.

"Listen - just give him some time to come around," she begged. "My sister went nuts after her son was born, no listen-" she said, as he snorted and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "-and I barely saw her for six months, but now things are right as rain. So you've got nothing to worry about."

Yes, I completely agree. Absolutely nothing to worry about." Sherlock said, nodding. He placed both his hands on her shoulders, then moved her firmly out of his way and walked out of the cafe towards the lift in the hospital foyer.

"Just come on back if you have any more questions!" Miranda yelled after him.

He gave her a brief wave of acknowledgement without looking back.

"About, you know, anything!" she yelled.

He pressed the button for the lift and waited awkwardly, tapping his foot. The clerk behind the information counter was glancing between the two of them and shaking his head.

"I'll see you later then?" she called out.

The bell dinged, the doors opened, and Sherlock escaped to the solitary confines of the lift. He let out a relieved breath as the doors closed, taking him to Lab B, where hopefully, answers to his questions awaited.


End file.
